


Nightmares and Knitting

by doodledinmypants



Category: Inception
Genre: Blood, Cuddling, Gore, Graphic Violence, Horror, I swear this isn't crack, Loss of Sanity, M/M, Night Terrors, Nightmares, arthur knits, bed sharing, fair warning there is no sex in this sorry, helpful!Cobb, teddy bear!Eames, terrified child!Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doodledinmypants/pseuds/doodledinmypants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fischer job, Arther spends his downtime slumming with Eames in Mombasa, playing Guinea pig for Yusuf's drugs. When a bad batch of Somnacin causes terrifying nightmares and waking visions, will Arthur be able to regain his sanity with Eames' help, or is there a deeper reason for his fear that has nothing to do with chemicals?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmares and Knitting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maskedfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maskedfangirl/gifts).



> Dedicated to: maskedfangirl who drew me amazing knitting!Arthur fan art which inspired this fic in the first place.  
> See [original post on LJ](http://snowbunny-fic.livejournal.com/2872.html) for further notes and links.

Arthur had a problem, and it currently had him suspended from the ceiling by thick, rusted chains. Any attempts to struggle free only served to make him spin and sway in a nausea-inducing manner, so he made an effort to remain perfectly still. It didn't matter, either way. She could see him.

“Why did you think it was a good idea to call me back here, Arthur?” hissed the young woman in the mirror. Her hair was dark and tangled around her face, obscuring her eyes. Streaks of black rolled down her cheeks: tears of oil, or perhaps soot. Her dress, once white, was frayed and ragged and stained a coppery brown. Arthur knew this woman, though she'd seemed so much bigger when he was seven years old. 

Even though he knew it was folly to speak her name aloud, he couldn't stop the gasp that escaped him as her hand reached through the mirror and closed around his throat. “Bloody Mary.”

Her face contorted with rage, and new red tears wept down her cheeks to mingle with the black. “The more you say my name, the more I make you bleed,” she promised in a voice that stung like hailstones. Arthur tried to twist away, but her grip was strong, and her hands were rapidly growing hotter. He could smell his flesh burning before he heard it (it smelled like bacon, he observed with detached interest), heard it before he felt it (the crackle of fat bubbling and popping as his skin crisped like a baked ham), and when he felt it, his charred skin cracking and sending rivulets of boiling blood down his chest, he screamed.

…

“How was it?” Yusuf asked as Arthur jerked awake, panting. “Sharp?”

“Too sharp,” gurgled Arthur, his hand flying to his neck automatically, feeling the unbroken skin beneath his fingers. He was still hot, but it was the sticky heat of Kenya, not scorching hellfire. “What was that one supposed to do?”

Yusuf frowned and checked the label on the glass vial, then cross-referenced his notes. “Ah, this one is specifically designed to tap into the dreams of childhood, to give the dreamer a chance to relive those happier, simpler times,” he said proudly. At the look Arthur gave him, his face fell. “Not quite the experience you had, I take it?”

Arthur glowered. “I knew this was a stupid idea,” he muttered, yanking the needle from his wrist and storming out of Yusuf's basement. Eames passed him as Arthur made his way to the restroom, wiping his hands on his trousers and giving him a singularly bemused look. 

“Everything all right? Arthur?” called Eames, his surprise shading into concern as he read the tight lines of Arthur's body. 

Arthur didn't reply, instead slamming into an empty stall and bowing over the toilet, just in time to revisit his breakfast and part of last night's dinner. 

…

When Arthur returned, face damp and missing his tie (ruined beyond saving, unfortunately, and he was so adding that to his fee), Yusuf and Eames gave him much the same look. Arthur looked between them with growing exasperation, but schooled his expression into one of cool professionalism. “Well? Let's try the next one. Show me what you've got.”

Yusuf brightened at that, turning away to prepare a new cocktail for the PASIV, but Eames didn't look so convinced. “You sure you don't want to call it a day, love?”

“I'm touched by your concern, Mister Eames,” said Arthur dryly, “but I'm fine. The sooner we get this job done, the sooner I can get back to the states and enjoy a real vacation.”

He raised an eyebrow for emphasis, and Eames had the grace to look at least marginally guilty. The forger had insisted Arthur come back with him and Yusuf to Mombasa a few weeks after the Fischer job, under the pretense of tying up some loose ends with Cobol and then enjoying some down time. They'd dealt with Cobol already—Arthur was assured now that nobody would come gunning for Dom or his kids, and he felt a certain satisfaction in wrapping up all the details of the job—but “down time” apparently consisted of playing Guinea pig for Yusuf's experimental sedatives. He was offering to pay handsomely for the tests (and he could afford it, too, with his double share from the Fischer job), and Arthur had reluctantly (stupidly) agreed along with Eames (who rarely said no to trying experimental drugs when they came from Yusuf).

He wondered why he'd even come to Kenya in the first place. He hated the African heat that wrinkled his suits, the crush of humanity, the pervasive _dirt_ on absolutely everything. His “friendship” with Eames, if one could even call it that, was built on a foundation of grudging respect, mutual annoyance, and (admittedly sometimes playful) rivalry. Hardly grounds for spending his well-earned vacation time with a man he could barely stand even under the most professional of circumstances, never mind while he was being pumped full of dubious chemicals.

“This one should be milder,” Yusuf promised, inserting the cartridge of amber fluid into the PASIV device and holding out the needle to Arthur. The point man did the honors himself, threading the IV into the vein and settling back onto the cot. Eames turned his head and smiled at him from a few feet away.

“Sweet dreams,” he quipped, but before Arthur could retort, Yusuf had pressed the plunger on the PASIV and they were under.

…

The dream started out innocently enough. Arthur thought this one must be Eames', evoking the pastoral English countryside with sheep on soft, distant hills and drifting mist in the valleys despite the sun shining brightly overhead. There was a distinctive lack of projections, unless one counted the sheep, and Arthur wondered if that was Eames' doing or if it was something in the compound Yusuf had used. 

Arthur reached up to loosen his tie, only to find he wasn't wearing one. He was wearing a faded maroon t-shirt and jeans with threadbare knees, and a pair of comfortably well-worn black Converse sneakers. The clothing felt familiar, yet Arthur felt distinctly ill at ease. He hadn't dressed like this since he was eleven. Not since his father had left.

“Nice trainers,” said Eames, too close behind him and to the right. Arthur jumped and turned to glare at him. “Your Chucks,” clarified Eames, nodding down at the shoes. There was a hole in the scuffed white rubber of the toe. Arthur wiggled his toes experimentally, and sure enough, he could see it through the hole.

“I think Yusuf's 'childhood regression' compound has some lingering effects,” Arthur said ruefully, plucking at his t-shirt with disdain.

“It's a good look for you. You've let your hair down, too,” said Eames, reaching over to ruffle said hair. Arthur glared even harder, but even in the dreamscape, he couldn't set the forger on fire with his mind. The feel of strong fingertips rubbing against his scalp wasn't entirely unpleasant, but it did make it quite clear that his hair was gel-free and unstyled. Which meant, Arthur realized in horror, that Eames could see how it curled up softly at the ends and made him look like he was all of fifteen years old. Even his hair had regressed. How mortifying. He swatted at Eames' hands.

“Shouldn't we be observing the dream?” Arthur reminded him pointedly. “Yusuf's relying on our feedback for his data.”

“I am observing,” Eames replied, giving him one of those rare grins that actually showed his slightly crooked teeth. “You.”

Arthur inexplicably flushed from collarbone to hairline, and he turned sharply on his heel to march off down the hill away from the source of his annoyance. However, he'd only gone about three steps before the ground opened up beneath him, and he fell into darkness.

…

“Arthur!” Eames' voice came from what seemed like a long way up, but Arthur knew he hadn't fallen that far. He'd landed on all fours with a painful jolt to his knees and wrists, but nothing appeared to be damaged. 

“I'm okay,” he called back, more shaken by his current surroundings than the fall itself. “I'm in... a cave.”

It was not just a cave. It was Skeletor's lair in Snake Mountain, complete with burning skull torches and a pool of boiling acid. Arthur couldn't remember if those had been in the actual cartoon or not, but he did remember the throne of bones—upon which reclined a bored-looking Skeletor.

“Ah, shit,” muttered Arthur, feeling his knees turn to jelly. This was the nightmare he'd had when he was five, after watching a marathon run of Masters of the Universe. Skeletor used to scare the crap out of him when he was a kid, and apparently still elicited the same reaction in some primitive monkey part of his brain. 

“Arthur! Good to see you again, kid,” greeted Skeletor. Arthur blinked and debated on the relative merits and drawbacks of laughing in his nightmare tormentor's face. Had he always had that nasal, snarky voice? The skull-faced man rose from his throne with a lazy stretch and strolled over to Arthur, looking him over thoughtfully, nodding his head and humming in the back of his throat. Arthur wondered, absurdly, if Skeletor would try to kick his tires or perhaps pull back his lips to check his teeth next. “You've grown up nicely. Yes. But I'll bet you're still... ticklish!”

Arthur wanted nothing more than to protest, or at least run away, but he could neither move nor speak as Skeletor leered at him with his blankly grinning skull face and raised his clawed hands menacingly. _No, no, nonononono,_ he thought, cringing away from those twitching talons as they settled almost gently against his vulnerable sides. 

Tickling, in Arthur's firm opinion, was one of the cruelest forms of torture mankind had ever invented. He'd always hated it as a child, and he had a suspicion that this nightmare had either instigated that knee-jerk recoil he had whenever someone tried to tickle him, or had at least stemmed from it. Chicken or egg, didn't matter. What mattered was that he was helpless to do anything but squirm, legs moving as though through thick mud when he tried to flee, nothing but hoarse, high-pitched squeaks escaping him when he tried to scream for help. It was pure agony. He almost welcomed it when those claws dug deeper into his flesh, carving bloody furrows into his torso, scraping against his ribs with a sound that set his teeth on edge. _Pain_ he could handle. Then his insides were spilling out of him, and blood was coming up with bile in his throat, and he closed his eyes in something like relief to wait for death to wake him.

…

Arthur woke gagging, and the bile taste didn't go away, so he made another mad dash to the restroom for a painful round of dry heaves. Yusuf trailed after him, peering into the stall with a furrowed brow. “Perhaps you should take a break,” the chemist suggested mildly. “I'll start with a lower dosage tomorrow, and maybe that will—” 

“No more,” groaned Arthur. His voice was destroyed. “You can't pay me enough to go under again, not with that shit.”

“All right.” Yusuf sighed. “I'll have to check my measurements, see what caused the reaction. Let me just take a blood sample, and you're free to go.”

Arthur nodded, pausing at the sink to rinse out his mouth and splash his face clean. “Yeah, I'm done.” 

He followed the chemist back to the lab just as Eames was pulling his own needle from his arm, blinking up at him with a question on his face. Arthur cut him off before he could speak it. “No more testing. Whatever that was, it's giving me a nasty reaction. You can stay and play lab rat all you like, but this is where I get off.”

Eames looked crestfallen, but nodded, generous lips pressed in a hard line. “Not quite the vacation I'd envisioned for us,” he admitted wryly. “Sorry.”

Arthur gave him a strange look. “Then what _were_ you envisioning, Eames?” Yusuf slid a needle into the bend of his elbow and filled a syringe with his blood. Arthur didn't even flinch. 

“Long walks on the beach, cold drinks with paper umbrellas,” said Eames, his flippant smirk sliding back into place. “You, on a bed full of rose petals.”

“How romantically cliché of you.” Arthur rolled his eyes, wholly unfazed. 

“There are worse ways to sleep, darling.” But Eames was obviously not talking about sleep in this particular vision of his.

After being tickled to death by Skeletor and char-broiled by Bloody Mary, he wasn't really in the mood for Eames' so-called flirting. “I'm booking the first flight back to Los Angeles. Wish I could say it's been a pleasure. Yusuf, Mister Eames.” With those stiff parting words, he slung his linen jacket over his arm and left the chemist's shop by the back stairs.

…

Arthur realized that Eames was following him back to his hotel by the time he was three blocks from Yusuf's shop. He pretended not to notice, and when the opportunity presented itself, ducked into an exceedingly narrow alley in a futile attempt to throw the forger off his trail. Eames eventually caught him up, as Arthur knew he would, near a market stall selling cheaply made jewelry. 

“Is there a particular reason you're tailing me, Eames?” he asked wearily, too mentally exhausted from the day's events to even muster up a proper amount of irritation. 

Eames adopted a casual slouch against the stall, which earned him a dirty look from the jewelry seller. “Just out for a bit of shopping,” he drawled, raising a pair of dangly earrings to the side of his head contemplatively. He peered into the small, dusty mirror on the stall's counter. “What do you think? Too gaudy?”

“They suit you perfectly,” said Arthur flatly. He glanced at the mirror, however, and felt a cold sweat pop out all over his forehead as _she_ slipped by in the background, almost too quickly for him to get a good look at her. Eames grinned up at him, but the smile faded immediately when he saw the look on Arthur's face.

“What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“I have to go,” choked Arthur, spinning and walking through the crowded market as briskly as he could. When the crowd thinned, he broke into a jog, and then a flat-out run. He didn't stop running until he was back at his hotel, throwing the deadbolt behind him. He leaned against the door and slid down along it until he was sitting on the floor, legs sprawled in front of him, breath ragged as it burned sweetly down his throat. 

“Fuck.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and scrambled slowly back to his feet, rubbery legs carrying him over to the bed so he could flop down face-first on the dubiously clean sheets. Too tired to do more than toe off his shoes, he fell asleep just like that.

…

Arthur always liked bath time. Mommy put the bubble bath in while the water ran, so that the tub was full to the top with fluffy suds. He had little boats, a squeaky duck, and a pitcher shaped like a blue whale that Mommy used to rinse the shampoo out of his hair. He liked to play with that, too, pouring the water over his boats to try to sink them.

If Arthur noticed that the tub and his toys seemed smaller than usual, it didn't much seem to matter. He was more focused on the gentle warmth of the water and how much fun he was having trying to sink his little boats. Which was why, when a heavy hand settled at the back of his neck, he jumped in surprise. He looked up and felt a sick twist in his gut as he recognized the face of his babysitter. Then, all he felt was the sting of soap in his eyes as his head was shoved under the water, the heavy ache of his lungs filling with liquid as his breath was forced out of him in a scream.

This wasn't just a nightmare: it was a memory. He'd been three years old. The memory had cropped up as a night terror for years during his childhood. As an adult, he still vastly preferred taking a shower to a bath. 

As the pain gave way to numbness, and the liquid weight spread from his chest to the rest of his limbs, Arthur felt something else. Someone was shaking him.

…

Arthur rolled over, shot upright, and had the Sig Sauer from under his pillow pointed at his attacker's head before he'd even fully opened his eyes. The hands on his shoulders stilled, then slowly raised, and Arthur finally recognized Eames. He dropped the gun onto the bedspread, arms going limp as he struggled to get his breathing under control. “What the hell are you doing here?” he gasped, proud of himself for keeping his voice fairly steady. “I could have killed you.”

“But you didn't, so I'll forgive you,” said Eames, his smile careful at the corners. 

With a vague grunt of annoyance, Arthur rolled out of bed and made his way to the bathroom to take a piss. Dreams about water always did that to him. He half expected Eames to follow him, and was relieved when the forger stayed put on the edge of the bed. 

By the time he'd finished and was washing his hands, Arthur froze, realizing what that nagging feeling in his gut had been trying to tell him since he'd woken up: _I had been dreaming._

Arthur hadn't had a dream without the aid of the PASIV device for nearly two years now. 

“You didn't answer my question,” he said, returning to the bed only to stand in front of Eames with his hands on his hips. He must have looked a mess, still in the day's suit, rumpled and creased from sleeping in it, but he didn't care. “Why are you here, Eames?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was worried for you?”

“No.”

“Ah. Well, then, I haven't got a better excuse, because that was it.”

Arthur sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I'm fine, Mister Eames, and I'll be even better once you're _out_ of my hotel room so that I can go back to sleep. I've got an early flight.” Which was partially a lie. He hadn't gotten around to booking a flight yet, but he was hoping to catch one on standby, and he _was_ going to the airport early for that. 

“You didn't look fine when you ran from me in the market,” Eames reminded him, “or when you were flailing and choking in your sleep.”

“I can't see how it's any of your business.”

“You wound me deeply, love. I thought we were friends.”

“You think a lot of things that aren't necessarily true.”

“I'm inclined to disagree, but I didn't come here to quibble with you.” Eames reached out, and before Arthur could pull away, he captured both of Arthur's hands in his own. “What's happening, Arthur?” he asked, his voice quietly urgent. “If you're still having a bad reaction, we should go back to Yusuf, see if he can't—“

“No.” Arthur yanked his hands free, ran them through his hair, which had loosened from the hold of his pomade and hung in slightly greasy strands about his face. “No,” he repeated, low and firm. “I'll be fine. Look, just... go. Please.”

Eames stood, but he made no indication that he meant to remove himself from Arthur's personal space. If anything, he was even closer to Arthur now, and they were of a height so that the forger could look him straight in the eye. “Sometimes I wonder how one of the brightest and best in this business, maybe _the_ best, can be so bloody-minded when he actually needs help,” murmured Eames, gray eyes flickering over Arthur's face, studying every twitch of muscle and shift in expression as though he intended to reproduce them in a forgery. 

“I don't need help,” Arthur told him, stepping around Eames and opening his suitcase to lay out fresh clothes for the morning. “Everyone has nightmares. You're making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“But you don't have nightmares. Or dreams. Not anymore, do you?” pressed Eames. Arthur froze, realizing his slip. “You haven't for awhile now, I know. And I know you've never had waking nightmares that've sent you rabbiting off through crowded streets like the devil himself were riding your arse. Arthur, something is _wrong_ here.”

Arthur spun on him, fed up with Eames' fussing and prying. “You know what's wrong? You. Why are you really here, Eames? Why do you even pretend to _care_?” The forger balked at this, but Arthur just kept going, stepping into Eames' space and forcing him to back up until his shoulders bumped the wall. “If there's one thing I know about you, it's that you only care about yourself. _Your_ money, _your_ job, _your_ life.” He poked Eames sharply in the chest to punctuate each point. So I don't know what angle you're playing at here, but I—“

Eames could move frighteningly fast when the need called for it, and Arthur was cut off mid-tirade by a warm, broad palm clamping across his mouth as the forger flipped their positions. He didn't quite slam Arthur into the wall, but he did pin the point man there with a forearm across his chest. Arthur was caught off guard for an instant, but then his eyes narrowed and he stomped down hard on Eames' instep with his heel. Eames winced; however, Arthur's stocking feet weren't much of a match for the forger's sturdy boots, so his grip held strong. 

“Stop it!” Eames snapped, and that more than the physical restraint made Arthur go still. He'd so rarely seen Eames lose his temper that it came as a bit of a shock. Even more shocking, though, was the fear he saw in Eames' eyes. “Now listen to me. You're not going to get better on your own. Yusuf checked your blood, and he didn't like what he saw. You're coming back with me, and we're going to get this sorted before you fly off somewhere we can't help you if you wind up going mad. Now, I won't take anymore arguments from you, do you understand?”

Arthur glared, but as Eames' hand was still covering his mouth, all he could do was jerk his head in a short nod. The second Eames let go of him, he made a show of wiping his mouth with his sleeve and straightening his already hopelessly wrinkled shirt. “You should have mentioned the blood sample first, saved us both a lot of trouble,” he said testily. “All right. Fine. I'll go back with you to Yusuf's.” Before Eames could look too relieved, he amended, “ _After I get some sleep._ So, if you don't mind...”

“Not at all.” Eames gestured magnanimously toward the bed. “I'll just make myself comfortable on the chair, then.”

Arthur bristled. “Eames...”

“Arthur,” he retorted, mimicking Arthur's tone perfectly. “Believe it or not, your health and well-being are currently my top priority. If I were to leave you here alone, when you might have another chemically-induced nightmare or some worse sort of attack—or if you were to pull a runner—what sort of friend would I be?”

“I can't believe this,” Arthur muttered. “Oh my god, fine, whatever. Sit there if you want. I'm going back to sleep. I'm not sure what you hope to accomplish here. You picked a hell of a time to start giving a shit about someone other than yourself.” Uncaring of what Eames saw, he stripped out of his crumpled shirt and slacks, crawling back into bed in his undershirt and boxer briefs. 

“Who says I've only just started?” Eames asked quietly, but it sounded like a rhetorical question, so Arthur didn't bother to answer. Instead, he rolled over and pulled the covers over his head until he was asleep.

…

When Arthur woke next, it was still dark. Something felt wrong. Without moving his head, he glanced over at the armchair near the bed where Eames had taken up his vigil. Empty. Arthur informed his jackhammering heart that this was _not at all_ the appropriate time to start panicking. Maybe he was in the bathroom—but no, the door was open, the light off. 

As Arthur's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed a shadow near the door. No, not a shadow; that would imply that something was casting it across the wall or floor. This was a man-shaped _thing_ , made of shadows so dense Arthur had to wonder if he would feel anything if he passed a hand through it. Slowly, it moved toward the bed.

Sometimes prey animals, like rabbits or deer or small rodents, would freeze at a predator's approach, hoping the larger animal wouldn't see them if they just held very still. Arthur felt like one of those small, wide-eyed mammals, the terror paralyzing him with the cold certainty that if he moved, he was dead. The shadowy figure came ever closer, not really walking per se as Arthur could see nothing that indicated it was moving its legs (if it even had legs), but rather gliding. It paused at the foot of the bed. Arthur didn't even dare blink, couldn't breathe. If he moved, it would see him. If it saw him, he was dead.

It sat at the end of the bed, and Arthur could feel the way the mattress dipped, the covers pulled tight, though something made of shadows should not have had any weight to it. A tiny, thin stream of breath slipped from Arthur's nose, painfully slow, his lungs burning for oxygen. He inhaled the same way, stealing each molecule of air into himself without a sound. 

The shadow leaned over him, and now he couldn't even sneak a breath, because it was filling his vision with opaque darkness, it was right in his face, _it could see him_. As Arthur opened his mouth to scream, the shadows filled his throat, choking him, and no sound came out. He struggled against his attacker, but though the figure had weight and could touch him, his hands swam through the darkness before him as though through a thick fog, useless.

He reached back for the gun under his pillow only to find it gone, and as he suffocated, he thought, _Damn it, Eames._

Sparks of red burst at the edges of his vision, and then there was only black, and then—

…

“Arthur, Arthur, wake up.” Eames' voice, and there was light pressing sharp and orange through his eyelids, and he could breathe. He sucked in great, greedy lungfuls of air, hands reaching out to grasp at the first solid thing he encountered, which happened to be Eames' shirt. “Only another nightmare. That's it, just breathe slowly, darling, you're not dying.”

Arthur opened one eye a crack, wincing as the morning sunlight seared his retina. “Eames,” he croaked. There must have been something in his voice, a waver or a crack, for Eames gathered him wordlessly into his arms and just held him. And Arthur, lacking the will or reason to fight Eames any longer, allowed it to happen. Eames smelled _good_ , to Arthur's surprise. He'd rarely had the opportunity to be in such close proximity to the forger, but now he noticed that Eames smelled of warm dryer sheets, Old Spice, and the faint underlying tang of sweat (which wasn't actually offensive—it just smelled comfortably like _Eames_ ). Surrendering to this solace, at least temporarily, Arthur closed his eyes and just breathed.

When he finally worked up the dignity to push Eames away (gently, maybe too gently), Arthur felt worlds closer to human. “I...” he began, but stalled, not knowing what to say at a time like this. 

“Coffee?” Eames offered, standing and going to the tiny coffeepot as though this were any other morning, as though he hadn't just spent the past ten minutes hugging another grown man with whom his relationship could best be described as a “friendly professional rivalry.” Arthur nodded gratefully, silently, as shame crept back in around the edges of the warm looseness in his body, tightening his shoulders once more.

Sweat spread in sticky patches all over Arthur's undershirt. He felt disgusting. Escaping into the shower, he stripped efficiently and subjected himself to the inconsistent water pressure and temperature of Mombasa's not-even-in-the-same-neighborhood-as-finest hotel. Once he was suitably refreshed, he wrapped a towel around himself and exited the bathroom to fetch the clean suit he'd laid out the night before. The scent of strong coffee walloped him in the face as soon as he opened the door. 

Clothing momentarily forgotten, Arthur tightened the towel around his waist and drifted hopefully over to where Eames was lounging in the chair with a steaming paper cup in his hands. The forger's expression shifted from lazy amusement to something softer, darker, as Arthur approached. “Mombasa is lovely this time of day,” he murmured in a way that meant he was talking about a very specific and immediate sort of scenery. 

Arthur ignored the remark and held out his hand imperiously. “Coffee,” he demanded. 

Eames laughed and handed over the cup. “You're welcome.”

“Thanks,” Arthur muttered belatedly, blowing on the dark, almost oily liquid before taking a tentative sip. It was pretty terrible, but he'd drunk worse. He took a bolder swig of the scalding liquid before setting the cup down and retrieving his clothes. The caffeine hit him immediately, waking him the rest of the way, and Arthur felt confident that he could deal with whatever the day threw at him. Once he was dressed, of course. 

Normally, he would have just shucked the towel and put his clothes on right there in the bedroom, but the way Eames was watching him inspired a strange sort of modesty, so he returned to the bathroom to dress. The shirt was thin cotton, the jacket and trousers a pale ivory linen, and though he hated the way linen wrinkled, it was the only way he could hope to survive in this heat. 

Arthur emerged looking cool and professional, grabbing his coffee and nodding to Eames (who was still wearing yesterday's clothes and looked no worse for it). “Let's get this over with,” he prompted, heading out the door. Eames smiled and followed at an unhurried saunter, hands in his pockets.

…

Arthur was in a bathroom, no larger than a closet, but it was so dark he couldn't see anything. Even when he found the light switch, the bulb burned with a low, anemic orange light that did nothing to dispel the shadows. Arthur felt trapped, stifled, but he couldn't leave the bathroom. Something was out there. It was looking for him.

He could hear it, shuffling outside, floor boards creaking under its weight. Arthur tried not to breathe so loudly, but even his heartbeat sounded like thunder in his ears. Surely, it could hear him, too. He pressed his hands against the door to hold it shut, because of course, there was no way to lock it. 

But it was there, in the bathroom with him, and its hands wrapped around him from behind, and when he opened his mouth to scream nothing came out but a choked whimper—

…

“Still no good,” Yusuf said, checking another compound off his list with a frustrated sigh. Arthur fought to catch his breath, sweat trickling down his neck and soaking the collar of his shirt. “If anything, the effects seem to be getting worse. Take a break, Arthur. I'll see what I can come up with in the meantime.”

Arthur didn't need to be told twice. He drew the needle from his wrist carefully, then went to the restroom to wash his face. When he looked up at his reflection in the dirty mirror, Eames was standing behind him. “He's trying, you know,” Eames assured him, or defended Yusuf. Either way.

“Yes, he's very trying,” said Arthur dryly. Eames grimaced. “I know, I know. This is just... it's exhausting. I should be in LA by now.”

“In such a hurry to get away from me, darling?” 

“You know it's not that,” Arthur retorted before he could give his words any serious thought. The triumphant delight that lit up Eames' face made him hasten to add: “If these nightmares persist, I might not be able to sleep properly again, much less take any jobs that involve working in dreams. You'll forgive me for not finding you the most annoying problem in my life at the moment.”

Though the smile wavered, Arthur's words didn't quite wipe it off of Eames' face. Pity. Arthur had worked a lot of scorn in there. “Yusuf will find a way,” Eames said. “Have a little faith.”

Arthur just shook his head and left the bathroom. _I'd rather have my sanity back,_ he thought, but didn't say.

…

Days turned into weeks, and Eames finally convinced Arthur to stay at his flat rather than continue to pay for sub-par lodgings at his hotel. When he ran out of warm weather appropriate suits, he conceded defeat and bought a few pairs of light khakis and short-sleeved button down shirts, sticking to colors and patterns that suited him rather than encouraging Eames by selecting anything the forger might conceivably wear. He still had standards.

Eames cooked, which was a blessing, because Arthur had more or less exhausted his restaurant options and was aching for some familiar dishes, anyway. The sofa wasn't the worst bed Arthur had slept on, though it was killing his lower back in the mornings. Eames offered him the bed, once, but Arthur insisted on not being more of an imposition than he already was. Then Eames offered to share the bed, and Arthur had rolled his eyes. “That wasn't a 'no,' love.” 

Halfway through the third week, Arthur gave up any semblance of dignity he had left, and crawled, shaking, into bed with Eames after a particularly awful nightmare. The forger hadn't even gloated, just pulled Arthur close and snuggled down under the sheets with him. It took Arthur a little while to admit that it helped, having Eames there. His mind settled as soon as he inhaled that familiar Eames smell, and he slept the rest of the night without dreaming at all.

The fact that he woke up with a sleepy Eames draped all over him didn't deter him from returning to Eames' bed the next night, or the night after that.

Arthur was just relieved that Eames never said a word about it.

...

 

Yusuf had to leave for a three day trip to Cairo to procure some of the rarer and more difficult to obtain chemicals he used in his Somnacin blends. He charged Eames with the task of writing down any and all instances of Arthur's flashbacks, including the time and date and length of the nightmare whenever possible. Arthur scoffed at this, told Yusuf to just concentrate on reversing the effects that he'd caused in the first place, and the chemist scuttled off to Egypt without further instructions.

In the meantime, Arthur had found a good way to decompress whenever he had a bad nightmare or daytime flashback. The latter were thankfully rare, but the former continued to plague him despite his more restful nights in Eames' bed. When he was too shaken to return to slumber, he would quietly extract himself from Eames' sprawling embrace and creep out to the living room. In his suitcase, in one of the hidden inner pockets, he would remove his supplies and get to work on his latest project: a cabled scarf in a soft, variegated brown-and-cream merino wool. He'd already knitted smaller versions in sage green and lavender for James and Philippa; this one was for Dom. 

Nearly the instant he had the needles in hand, the tremors subsided, and Arthur found himself sinking into the hypnotic realm of counting stitches, purls, and shifting cables on double-points. When he realized that he'd slipped a stitch some seven rows back, he swore colorfully under his breath and began the painstaking process of ripping the scarf back to that row and starting over, thanking his mother for introducing him to lifelines. Carefully, he picked up his stitches once more and sighed, starting the row from the beginning.

“You might have an easier time of it if you didn't strangle the needles so,” commented Eames from the doorway. Arthur started and almost dropped his needles, but his reflexes were better than that. He hadn't even noticed the forger's approach, he'd been so engrossed in his work. Briefly, he considered hiding the scarf, but Eames had obviously already seen it. There was no use trying to deny it; his secret was out now.

“I wasn't aware you knew anything about knitting,” said Arthur in a deliberately bland tone.

“I didn't know you knitted,” returned Eames, making himself comfortable next to Arthur on the couch and picking up the free end of the scarf to examine it. “Tight, aren't we?” Before Arthur could do more than bristle at the suggestive tone in the forger's voice, Eames clarified, all innocence: “Your stitches, I mean. I'll bet you have to use a needle size up just to get the right gauge.”

“Two,” admitted Arthur, ears turning red at the tips. His mother had always picked on him for knitting so tightly. “I only knit when I'm stressed.”

“I don't really knit at all, but I learned how for a job once. Had to forge somebody's dear old granny.” Eames flashed a grin. “It was interesting enough that I managed a few potholders before the job was done, and thought about keeping the hobby, but there just wasn't time. Never learned anything near so fancy as you're doing. What's this design?”

“Those are cables.” And with that, Arthur found himself explaining the finer points of his scarf pattern, discussing color theory, and arguing the relative merits of natural and artificial fibers with Eames until the sun came up. It felt good to talk with Eames about something that didn't have anything to do with work, and Arthur wondered why he'd never made an effort to get to know the forger like this before. Maybe neither of them had made much of an effort. 

When Eames asked Arthur if he'd knit him something, Arthur laughed outright. “When would you ever get to wear it?” he demanded. “It's never cold here.”

“I take jobs in other parts of the world,” Eames pointed out, and that put an end Arthur's laughter. “I don't always live here, either.”

“You're serious.” He'd never had anyone ask him to knit something before, aside from his mother, who'd taught him the craft. Really, it was less a hobby than a form of self-therapy. He only made gifts for people so that he could feel as though he'd done something productive, and even then he almost never told the recipients where he'd obtained the hand-knitted items. It beat endlessly knitting socks for himself (though he still had a few pairs of those, knit from carefully selected bamboo and silk blends that matched his suits).

Something closed off in Eames' expression, and the forger shifted on the couch so that he was facing slightly away from Arthur. “You needn't, if you don't want to do it.”

“It's not that,” said Arthur quickly. “Just... nobody's ever wanted me to knit something for them. What would you like?”

Eames regarded him with a wary sort of wonder for a moment, then smiled so broadly that Arthur could see the crooked line of his teeth (and he would never in his life admit that he found that utterly charming). “Surprise me.”

…

If the nightmares weren't improving, at least they weren't growing worse. Arthur wasn't sleeping enough, however, and that was taking its toll on his body. He only managed about three or four hours of uninterrupted, dreamless sleep per night, and he had to give most of the credit for even that meager reprieve to Eames. He lost weight, which wasn't healthy for somebody who didn't have a spare ounce of fat on him in the first place, and his eyes took on a sunken, shadowed look that wasn't attractive on even the most scintillating of vampires. Since he wasn't technically working anymore, he let his style of dress slip more into “casual” territory every day, until he was wearing khaki shorts, sandals, and thin t-shirts (some borrowed from Eames) on his daily visits to Yusuf. Hair gel became an occasional luxury, until he stopped using it entirely. His hair, unfettered, was longer than Eames had expected and tended to curl at the ends, especially near the back of his neck. His hands developed a fine tremor that worsened after particularly bad flashbacks. Eames could feel it thrumming through his entire body when they were in bed together, and he would hold Arthur close then under the pretense of being asleep (and therefore not to be held accountable for any cuddling). Arthur never once complained.

Arthur's deterioration wasn't limited to his physical health, either. He made a concentrated effort to project nothing but tired annoyance at his situation, but Eames would catch him waking from nightmares or simply halting in the middle of the street with a wild, hunted look in his eyes, chest expanding and contracting so quickly he looked as though he were hyperventilating. He didn't seem to see Eames when that happened, and any attempt the forger made to touch or soothe him only appeared to exacerbate the situation. So Eames watched, frustrated and helpless, as Arthur suffered. 

Ever the sort to put the needs of others before his own, Arthur did his best to keep his spiral into madness quiet and unimposing. Eames wanted to tear out his own hair whenever Arthur assured him that he was fine, that Eames didn't need to keep worrying over him, which of course only made him worry more. More quiet and withdrawn than usual, the witty banter and half-playful insults that Eames had grown to expect (and even enjoy) from Arthur all but ceased. The point man—former point man—was a shadow of himself. He spent all his free time knitting and watching awful dramas on the television, even though he didn't speak more than three words of Swahili. Occasionally, he'd switch to BBC world news, but only if Eames asked. He withstood Yusuf's tests and prodding with a clenched jaw and a resigned look in his dark eyes. 

Finally, Yusuf took Eames aside after nearly six weeks of spinning their wheels with no tangible results, his brow creased in frustration and worry. “The blood tests show that the original compound worked its way out of his system completely by the end of the fourth week,” said Yusuf in low tones. Arthur had fallen asleep in the chair shortly after their last round of vigorous tests with the PASIV device, and neither of them wanted to rob him of a chance for even a few minutes of peaceful sleep. “He should be getting better, but he's not. It's burrowed deeper into his subconscious, become psychological. He's got something like Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I can give him drugs to help with that, but only time and patience will help him recover.”

“Bloody hell, Yusuf.” Eames scrubbed a hand through his freshly short-cropped hair—Arthur had told him, in a candid and unusually relaxed moment, that the side part and pomade made him look old—and scowled at the chemist. “Is that all you can do, then?”

Yusuf had the grace to look guilty, at least. “I am sorry, but he knew the risks as well as I did. I've been developing a mild sedative that should let him get more sleep and block the dreams, but he may grow dependent on it. I can supply it for as long as he needs it. It's the least I can do.”

“Too right, it is,” muttered Eames. Before he could berate his friend further, Arthur stirred and whimpered. Eames was on his knees beside the chair immediately, taking Arthur's hand in his and murmuring in a low, soothing voice until the other man calmed and woke up properly. Yusuf watched this with a twist of recognition in his gut, and the guilt piled on with a fresh vengeance.

However, Yusuf was a practical man. If destroying the mind of the man Eames loved lost him no more than the forger's friendship, then he would count himself lucky that Eames was so forgiving.

…

Arthur didn't take the news well, which was a nice way of saying that it took all of Eames' strength, superior body mass, and a strong sedative to keep him from going after Yusuf with his Sig Sauer. Once Arthur was calmer, drifting in a heavily drugged stupor, Eames suggested they go see Dominic Cobb. “This is what he does now,” Eames reminded him. “If anybody can put you to rights, it's Cobb.”

It was true. After the Fischer job, Dom had officially retired from a life of crime. However, he still did some mostly legal consultation on the side, playing counselor for those who worked in dreams. Some, but not all of his clients, were involved in his former line of work. Otherwise, he helped everyone from teens who spent too much time in the dreamcades to, ironically enough, victims of extraction. In the past two months following his last illegal job, he was finally putting his skills to use in a way that could earn him an honest living and put his children through college (though Saito was backing this new business venture of his, so he wasn't actually all that worried about the money, despite giving up his share from the Fischer job to Yusuf). It seemed only fitting that he be the one to find a way to help his former point man.

Arthur agreed, though his consent was dubious considering his altered state, but Eames wasn't picky. He had them both packed and on an airplane to Los Angeles within three hours. The flight itself was relatively uneventful. Yusuf gave them a bottle of sedative in gelcap form, with all the appropriate medical documentation they'd need to get it through customs and security (thanks due in part to Eames, who forged a doctor's signature). Arthur made it all the way to the states without so much as a shiver.

It was too good to be true, however. After their plane touched down in LAX, Arthur's first stop was the restroom, where he proceeded to empty his stomach of lousy airplane food. No great loss there, but Eames worried they wouldn't be able to rely on the sedative too heavily after all. 

Cobb insisted on picking them up from the airport. There was a child's car seat in the back, a coloring book shoved into the pocket on the backside of the driver's seat, and a handful of small toys and snack crumbs littering the floor of the car. “Sorry about the mess,” he apologized, helping Eames stow their luggage in the trunk while Arthur sluggishly buckled himself into the front passenger's seat. “I've brought the kids to their grandmother's for the rest of the week.”

Eames was surprised and touched that Cobb would go through all this trouble for Arthur, but when he considered their relationship, it didn't seem so strange. Cobb was the closest thing Arthur had to a best friend. “Thanks, Dom. I don't know if a week will be enough, though. Yusuf's been working on this for six.”

Cobb smiled grimly. “I have some ideas.” 

…

“This is a terrible idea,” insisted Eames. 

“Trust me,” said Cobb.

“That's a tall order. The last time you managed to convince one of us to trust you—“

“That was different. I was desperate.”

“ _Scrambled. Eggs. Dom._ ”

“Look, I'm sorry about that, all right? Things have changed. I've changed. I wouldn't do this if I didn't think it would help Arthur.”

Eames pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “He has these visions while he's _awake_. Sleeping only makes them sharper, and going under with the PASIV sharper yet.”

“Ah, but with the PASIV device, we can control the environment,” pounced Cobb. “So that's where we'll start.”

“Am I missing something important here?” Arthur asked blearily from the doorway. 

Eames looked up with a start. “No, love. Just talking shop. How'd you sleep?” 

Arthur grunted a nonverbal response. Yusuf's sedative was helping to a degree, but it made the former point man perpetually drowsy and sluggish. He shuffled to the kitchen in his pajamas, scratching himself and fumbling for the coffee cups. Eames jumped up to help him before he spilled hot coffee all over himself. It was a testament to the power of Yusuf's handiwork that Arthur didn't complain about this treatment, merely waiting patiently for Eames to fill a mug for him and taking it with mumbled thanks back to the living room. Eames watched him go, then turned to find Cobb watching him.

“What?” Eames demanded, though his voice was kept low to avoid attracting Arthur's attention.

Cobb regarded Eames for a moment, gaze shifting to Arthur and then back to the forger. “You two are... different with each other now,” he observed, his voice slow and careful. “Has something happened?”

Eames gave him an eloquent “Are you stupid?” look. “I've been playing nursemaid to the man for the past six weeks as he slowly loses his mind,” he hissed. “So, yes, I do believe the dynamic of our relationship has fundamentally changed. Good of you to notice.”

Rolling his eyes Cobb, shook his head minutely. “Not just that. I mean... Never mind. It's none of my business.”

“Too right, it isn't,” Eames agreed curtly. “Focus, Cobb. We need to put his head right before we lose him for good.” An uninvited note of desperation crept into his voice, which the former extractor didn't miss, but was too polite to acknowledge in words.

“We won't lose him,” Cobb said with firm determination, “but you have to do exactly as I say.”

Eames found himself without much other choice. He sighed. “Tell me.”

Cobb told him. Eames stared. Cobb spread his hands and kept his gaze level, unflinching. Eames swore, then raised a hand of his own, capitulating.

“Fine,” said Eames. “But I'll be the one going in.”

Cobb squinted at him, then nodded slowly. “You probably should be,” he agreed finally.

…

The instant Arthur saw the PASIV device, his eyes snapped wide open and he struggled weakly against Eames' arms. The sedative had sapped his strength, which was the only reason he hadn't broken free. The forger held him in a firm but not strangling hold as Cobb set up the equipment, swabbing Arthur and Eames' wrists swiftly with alcohol and sliding the needles in as Eames held them both as still as possible. “No! I won't go back there! They'll find me!” Arthur shouted, his hoarse baritone cracking like a teenager's voice. 

“Do it!” barked Eames, and Cobb depressed the plunger on the PD, flooding their systems with the chemical cocktail that would induce lucid, shared dreaming. The last things Eames noticed before he went under were Cobb's grim face and a soft, terrified whimper from the man in his arms. His eyes slid closed then.

… 

When he opened them, he was standing in a cave. Arthur was there as well, some twenty feet away, and he was standing frozen in terror. A tall, muscular man with a cape and a cowl and a skull for a face stalked slow circles around Arthur, and Eames realized with a start that they were in a cartoon. He looked down at his own hand, marveling at the simple ink lines and flat paint that made up his dreaming body. This one would be easy, then. 

Arthur was shaking, and Eames realized that he wasn't just frozen in place because he was afraid; he literally _could not move_. The straining tension in his body screamed a desire to flee, but he was locked into position through some sort of paralysis. The skull-faced man cackled and came closer, clawed fingers outstretched.

“Arthur!” Eames called, and slowly, the former point man turned to him. “He's just a cartoon! Ink and paint and celluloid! Use this!” 

He slid a plastic bucket over to Arthur, and it landed near his feet, sloshing dangerously. The liquid inside was clear as water but gave off a sweet, chemical smell. Arthur blinked down at it, then reached down to pick it up, as though his body were moving underwater. He wasn't fast enough. 

Skeletor closed in with a shriek of triumph, digging his talons into Arthur's sides. Arthur writhed and howled in agonized, breathless... giggles? Eames frowned. “Arthur! The bucket!” he yelled, coming closer, but he knew he couldn't do any more to help. It was up to Arthur now.

Gritting his teeth around the tortured laughter, Arthur grabbed the bucket and upended it over Skeletor's head. The acetone ate into the cartoon villain, and now his shrieks burbled and whined into defeated moans as he melted like the wicked witch of the West. Arthur's legs and hands began to sizzle and melt like butter on a skillet as well where the paint thinner had splashed him, but he ignored it, breathing hard as he watched the skull-faced man sink into the stone floor of the cave as a bubbling, purplish puddle. His eyes met Eames' in a startled realization as the dream ended. 

… 

“Again,” growled Eames, and Cobb set the timer for another minute. 

… 

Bloody Mary wept her black and bloody tears as she cooked Arthur alive with every touch, and his screams brought Eames running through the dark, formless tunnels. He could smell burnt hair and meat. Resisting the urge to gag from the acrid smoke, Eames hurried on, brandishing a shield and a sword. The shield was polished to a mirror finish, the sword glinting silver in the dim light.

“Arthur!” Eames shouted, flinging the sword in an overhead swing. It arced through the air like a boomerang, slicing neatly through the chains that bound Arthur with a chime of metal on metal, and Arthur fell limply to the ground. The sword bounced off the nearby wall and landed inches from Arthur's hand, point-down in the concrete floor, quivering like a dart in a board. Eames tossed the shield over as well, and it clanked less gracefully over to Arthur, skidding to a halt by his hip. “It's Bloody Mary! She can't stand the sight of herself in a mirror, remember?” 

It was nonsense, dream logic, but then again the legend said nothing about Bloody Mary having hands that burned, either. This was Arthur's creation, a monster of his own mind. 

In the end, it didn't matter what Eames told him to do. As long as Arthur believed it would work. 

Arthur shed the chains as he stood, the links breaking apart like glass and falling down around him like rain. He took the sword in one hand and the shield in the other, and he looked so natural that Eames felt himself letting out a low, awed whistle. Arthur held up the mirrored shield. Bloody Mary wailed and backed away, but Arthur pressed onward, brandishing the polished surface until she was forced to look upon her own reflection, transfixed. 

When her hands dropped helplessly to her sides, Arthur stopped advancing and swung the sword in a flashing arc. Her head thumped to the floor several feet away, her body hitting the ground in an echoing thud a second later. The blood-spattered Arthur turned to face Eames again, that same expression transforming the terror on his face into something resembling a grim understanding. 

… 

“Again,” gasped Eames when they surfaced, and though Cobb's brow furrowed, he sent them back under.

…

Arthur was the hunter this time. He didn't hide in the bathroom or try to turn on the light, because Eames had given him a hunting rifle with a night-vision scope. The monster in the dark never stood a chance.

…

“Again.”

…

For hours in dream time, bare minutes in reality, Arthur fought his way through the nightmarish landscape of his mind. Always, Eames was there, calling his name and giving him just enough of a nudge to get the job done. Supporting, but never stepping in directly. This was Arthur's battle. He had to win it on his own, or it would mean nothing. Eames could only offer what little help he was able.

As Arthur drowned, held under the bathwater by the hands of his babysitter, Eames leaned down to whisper in his ear: “You're not a child, Arthur. You're not helpless. You're stronger than she is. You can defeat her. Get up!” And Arthur did, and he shoved the woman away with a wordless, feral snarl, surging out of the water with naked (in more ways than one) fury. Eames interfered for the first time, stepping between Arthur and the woman cowering on the drenched bathroom floor.

“You've done it, Arthur. You've won. Let's keep going,” the forger urged in a low voice. 

Arthur gave him a look that would have killed the resolve of a lesser man, but Eames held firm. “She tried to kill me. She tried to kill a _child_ , Eames. She doesn't deserve to live!”

“She isn't worth it,” Eames told him gently. “You survived. She's a memory now, and you're far stronger than she ever was, ever will be. Prove it.”

Arthur's resolve wavered, and he closed his eyes in weary resignation, dipping his head in the slightest nod. Eames rested his forehead against Arthur's as the dream crumbled around them. “That's it, darling. One more to go.”

… 

“Eames,” said Cobb as they blinked awake, “we need to stop this. It's not safe. The build up in your bloodstream—“

“Just once more,” Eames gritted out the words as though in pain, which he was. His muscles burned as though he'd just run a marathon on no sleep, water, or food for the past twenty-four hours. Arthur was worse off, not even fully returning to consciousness, though he groaned softly and shifted against Eames on the couch. “We're so close. If we stop now, we'll have to start all over again.”

“It could kill you!” Cobb protested. “Both of you!”

“Once more,” insisted Eames. “Thirty seconds. No more, no less.” That would give them about six minutes in the dream. Not a lot of time, but if they needed more than that, then this whole plan wasn't worth pursuing. “Cobb, you must. Please.”

Maybe it was the pleading note in Eames' voice, or maybe it was his faith in the plan he'd helped concoct, but Cobb nodded and hit the button one last time.

…

The room was so dark. Eames found himself curled up in bed a foot away from the trembling Arthur, who was staring at the corner of his room with the kind of terror that a mouse felt as it sensed the rush of air from an owl's wings in the night. “Arthur,” he whispered, but Arthur didn't respond.

“This one is different,” Arthur said, his whisper almost sub-vocal. Eames could see the barest motion of his lips, could make out the words, but didn't remember hearing a sound. Arthur wasn't talking to Eames, though the words were as much for him as anyone. “I can't fight this one.”

“Yes, you can.” Eames moved closer by millimeters, curling around Arthur as he'd done so many restless nights in Mombasa, as he was doing now in the real world on Dom Cobb's couch. “You don't have to do it all alone. I'm here.”

Arthur's hand, ice cold and clammy, fumbled back under the covers and clutched Eames' hand hard enough to make bones creak. “Don't move. Don't speak. Don't even breathe.”

Eames pressed his face to the back of Arthur's neck, forcing his breaths to come in shallowly, silently. From the corner of his eyes, he watched the patch of shadow that was impossibly darker than the rest of the room glide closer to the bed. He stopped breathing altogether when it stopped moving.

It hovered at the end of the bed, and Eames whispered, lips moving against the fragile skin behind Arthur's ear, “Arthur. Arthur, it can't hurt you. Turn on the light.”

“I can't.” The subvocal response held a high, panicked note of a whine in it, almost a teakettle sound. “I can't, I can't. Oh, god, I can't, Eames!”

“Turn on the light!”

“There's no light. It's broken, just like before!” Arthur's breathing sped up, coming short and rushed, threatening hyperventilation. “It sees me, Eames! It's going to get me! Oh, god, oh, god, don't let it get me!”

The shadow loomed over the bed, less like a man and more like a tidal wave ready to crash down on a helpless island village, inexorable and suffocating and cold. 

Eames swore and pulled out a gun from nowhere, pressing it into Arthur's hand. “Do it, Arthur! If you don't defeat this one, it's all over. I can't help you anymore.”

“Just go,” Arthur sobbed, voice shaking. “Go, go, before it gets you, too.”

Eames slapped him, hard, across the face. “Damnit, Arthur! Don't give up!”

The pain galvanized Arthur's instincts for violence, and Eames found the muzzle of the gun pressed to the soft spot beneath his chin. He swallowed, and his Adam's apple squeezed painfully past the cool metal. “That's it. Do it, Arthur.”

Arthur didn't pull the trigger. His eyes flicked from Eames to the shadow. He reached for the bedside lamp. He turned it on.

The room flooded with light so blinding that everything vanished for a moment. The bed, Arthur, the shadow, and Eames found himself floating in blank, white space. He panicked momentarily, thinking he'd dropped into Limbo, but no. There was Arthur. 

Both of him.

Eames blinked. Two Arthurs stood before him, dressed exactly the same, holding the same guns to each others' heads. It was like a mirror, except for the places where they overlapped. 

And Eames understood. “You don't have to kill him to win this, Arthur,” he said quietly.

“But he'll kill me if I don't,” replied one of the Arthurs, and the other smiled and said, “Yes, I will.”

Eames couldn't help him any more than that. All he could do was stand back and watch, and hope that Arthur had worked it out for himself. 

Arthur frowned at himself, and the other mirrored the expression. “This is what I'm afraid of?”

“Yes,” hissed the double. “Not the monsters in your nightmares, but the monster you're becoming. What would your mother think, seeing what you've become? Her baby boy, so gentle, so fragile, so helpless... now a killer?”

“I'm not helpless anymore,” muttered Arthur, a mantra, a security blanket. “I'm not a child.”

“No,” said the other Arthur, very reasonably, “you're a monster.”

“No!” The gun hand squeezed, and the other Arthur laughed as the dry, empty click of the gun produced nothing more than the noise itself. 

“You can't kill me,” said the other Arthur with a mocking pity. “I'm you.”

Eames tensed, but he couldn't do anything to interrupt this confrontation. He clenched his fists at his side. Time was running out. This had to end. Now.

Arthur apparently came to the same conclusion, because he let out a long breath and lowered his gun. The double did the same, mirroring him. “You're right. You are me. Part of me I can't destroy, or ignore.”

He stepped forward then, and Eames' heart leaped as Arthur whispered in his double's ear, “But I'm not afraid of you anymore, either.”

And the dream shattered around them.

…

Eames slept the dreamless, exhausted sleep of a man who had spent too long in this business. He only woke when he felt something soft and warm wind around his neck, and instinct forced him to jerk his eyes open, one hand going for a weapon before realizing he had none on him. The instant of adrenaline rush faded quickly as he saw that it was Arthur who stood over him, smiling with that gently mocking reproach he had whenever Eames did something endearingly stupid. Eames spotted his gun on the coffee table, well out of easy reach. He settled back into the couch with a grumbling snort and peered down at the scarf that Arthur had bestowed upon him. “I'd have thought that nearly two months of devoted service would be worth at least a jumper.”

Arthur gave him a cagey look. “There's an old superstition about knitting sweaters for certain people,” he said. “I thought I'd better start with a scarf.”

Eames ran his fingers over it. It was ridiculously soft and thick, absolute luxury in shades of gray and blue and green that matched his eyes. It had cables in it, even more complicated than the ones he'd seen in the scarf Arthur was making for Cobb. “When did you finish it?”

“Just now. I had some time.” Arthur sat down on the couch, Eames automatically shifting his legs to give the other man room.

“You should have woken me,” Eames said, frowning.

“No, I shouldn't have. You were about ready to collapse. You haven't been sleeping much, either. Don't think I hadn't noticed. I was sedated, not stupid. You earned your rest.”

Eames opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. “Thank you.”

Arthur shook his head. “No. Thank you. You saved me.”

“Don't give me too much credit, love,” Eames yawned. “You did all the fighting. I just cheered you on from the sidelines.”

“And kept handing me just the weapons I needed to get the job done,” Arthur pointed out. 

“That, too,” Eames conceded. “I've told you, you need to dream bigger.”

Arthur shuddered. “I think... that would have been bad,” he said carefully. Eames frowned a little, then nodded in understanding. The nightmares had been bad enough. Perhaps, for once, Arthur's lack of imagination had done him some good. Not enough, in Eames' opinion, to be worth it, though. 

“You're all right now?” Eames asked quietly. 

Arthur touched the tip of his tongue to his upper lip thoughtfully. Then, he nodded slowly. “Dom says I won't need the sedative any longer, but I might need to wean myself off slowly to avoid withdrawal symptoms. I won't be taking any jobs for at least another month. Not that I really need to.” Saito's money had left them all in a comfortable place, financially. 

“Right. That's good, then.” Eames felt an odd clenching in his chest and gut, an unexpected feeling of loss. “What will you do, then?”

“I thought I'd find a decent hotel room, or maybe rent a place for a month or two. Just lie low.” Arthur shrugged. “Dom's got his kids to worry about. He doesn't need me hanging around, imposing on his hospitality any longer than I already have.”

Eames nodded. “Guess I'd best be off, then, too.”

“You could stay with me.” The invitation hung in the air between them, heavy with promise. 

Eames swallowed. Twice. His throat felt dry. “Thought you'd want to be rid of me.”

Arthur fixed him with a steady gaze. “Eames,” he said flatly, “I'm going to need someone to make sure I don't have a relapse, or a bad reaction to coming off the sedative. You're the only one I can trust with this.” Something softened around the corners of his eyes, and Eames caught the real meaning behind his words. 

The forger chuckled, then curled one arm around Arthur's waist, drawing the other man closer. “You just don't want to give up your teddy bear.”

A proper smile broke out across Arthur's face, then, and it looked good on him. Relaxed. Happy. Eames didn't recall ever seeing such a smile from Arthur before, and it left him momentarily stunned and breathless. Then, Arthur left him quite literally breathless as he tugged hard on the scarf and dragged Eames into a deep, possessive kiss. 

They parted just enough for Eames to gasp for air, and for Arthur to murmur against his lower lip: “I can think of worse ways to sleep.”

 

…

The End


End file.
